


affairs of the pocket.

by aceface



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-02
Updated: 2010-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-08 15:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceface/pseuds/aceface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank gets in a fight and has to work a thrift store doing community service. There, he meets his co-worker Elena's elusive grandson, Gerard Way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	affairs of the pocket.

_"Fuck people that say when someone hits you in the face just turn the other cheek, and karma will get that person, but what if I am karma? What if the buck stops with me? What if I’m supposed to put this person down? After all, I’m a fucking human being; I have hate, mistrust, and inadequacy. Sometimes you just want to take someone by the throat until their breath leaves their body."_

Normally, Frank doesn't get that angry. Oh, sure, he has a quick temper -- "Short fuse," his dad said, once, after a few beers -- and he flares up easily but usually it dies out after a brief fistfight and he's able to shake hands afterwards, say a genuine "No hard feelings." He's never been one to hold grudges, never been one for the slow burning anger. He's always seen it as dangerous, the kind of feeling that would eat away at your insides if left unchecked. Frank has an outlet for emotion like that; he screams into a microphone when he feels the anger building up, thrashes around on a guitar until it's dissipated.

But then he finds out that some stalker of Jamia's has been talking shit about her. Jamia's one of the only girls he hangs around with on a regular basis -- she's a pretty hardcore chick and more than capable of taking care of herself, but this guy used to be her friend and she doesn't want to hurt him. Jamia's tough as shit, but she can be way too loyal when it comes to friends -- or, in this case, _ex_-friends. This guy -- Jack? Jake? It's fucking Jake or something, Frank can't remember, doesn't really care -- is obsessed with her, no kidding, and he hates her now, bitter and jealous that she rejected him. Frank doesn't understand, _can't_ understand, but then he hears vicious rumours started by him that Jamia's sucked off all of Pencey Prep in the back of their van.

(In reality, Frank and Jamia tried making out one time but they both ended up laughing. Jamia likes to joke that they turned each other gay, but it wasn't entirely her fault. Jamia is awesome, and that's just it -- she's the most awesome chick that Frank knows, but she's a _chick_. He hadn't known that she wasn't what he wanted until then.)

So when Frank sees that this guy has dared to show his face at a Pencey show -- _his_ fucking Pencey show! -- he sees red. He can see him through the sweating mass of people, clothed in darkness from the atmosphere, almost one of the shadows. Frank's shaking, literally _shaking_, with adrenaline and anger, hot and liquid through his veins. It escalates when he catches sight of Jake staring at Jamia from across the room, and the last song has barely even ended before he's throwing his guitar at Tim -- who catches it, luckily -- and wading through the sweating crowd, ready to do something about this, make sure fucking Jake gets the fucking _message_. Neil shouts something at him, but it's made unrecognisable by the heavy music already pouring out of the speakers, so Frank keeps going.

When he gets there, Jake is saying something to her, leaning in close (_ready to distribute his poison_, Frank thinks, and clenches his fists).

He only catches, "..so go get fucked by all the punk rock kids you want, sweetheart-" before he punches Jake squarely in the face.

"_Fucker_," he hisses as Jake goes straight down and Jamia puts a hand out to Frank, biting her lip, eyes proud but worried.

"Frank -- that's _enough_," she says warningly but Jake's on his back and staring up at Frank maliciously, one hand over his now-bleeding nose.

"Fag," he spits, like a bullet, and Frank's on him in a second. He can only half see him, as the lights flash on and off, and the scene changes with every illumination. He's pulled away almost immediately, only getting a few good hits in, and Jake only flails a little (although he does somehow manage to leave a long red scratch down the side of Frank's neck). "You are _so dead_," Jake whines, still curled up on the floor, and the threat seems so absurd that Frank can't help laughing.

"Yeah? What the fuck are you going to do, tell my mom?" He resists the urge to add 'ooh, I'm _sooo_ scared,' like they used to in kindergarten, maybe dance around a little bit, and a smirk twists his mouth just from thinking about it. Instead, he slings an arm around Jamia, partly to make a point, and pulls her close as Jake stands, wincing painfully and stumbles away. "You okay?"

She nods, dark eyes unblinking. "Frank -- you didn't have to do that. He's a fucking crazy asshole; he'll get you back somehow."

Frank knows this is probably true but he can't bring himself to care right now. He's not feeling as satisfied as he usually does after a fight, he's still got energy thrumming through him, and feels as though he's got sand underneath his skin. All out of place, and rubbing him the wrong way. He knows what it is -- the hissed insult of _fag_ is something he still hasn't got used to, isn't sure he ever will. Even a cold beer doesn't take the edge away from the barbed insult, and Frank can tell he'll be feeling the sting of this one for a while.

For now, Frank throws himself into the pit. It's what he needs right now, some way to lash out, forget his frustration. He doesn't think when he's in the pit, there's no place for thought, just the rough rhythm of throwing himself around, hitting other people, getting hit. He knows he'll have yellow bruises covering his skin in the morning, some hidden under his few tattoos, but it'll be something _real_. The less hardcore kids are getting out of his way, leaving the pit as it becomes more violent -- but at least this, right here, is an impersonal violence. The sort that Frank is used to.

[//]

_"Asshole. I was such an asshole! Uh, delinquent. I was told I was too intelligent for my own good but I don't know about that."_

He skips school the next day, sleeping late, but he doesn't feel any more refreshed. The sleep seems to have formed a dull, aching weight at the back of his neck and Frank feels the worst he has in a while. He opens a window, wincing as the sharp air hits him like a slap in the face, and leans out to light up a cigarette.

He takes a deep breath before blowing the smoke out smoothly, staring out over the grey rooftops that make up his view of Belleville in the morning. He still fells unsettled and slightly sick, and when his mom calls "FRANK! Get down here!" it causes his stomach to jolt even though he feels like he should have been expecting it. He flicks the ash down into the garden and stubs out his cigarette, leaving it on his windowsill before heading downstairs to face the proverbial music.

He doesn't know what he expects exactly, but it's not his mom sat on the couch, face pale and drawn. "Frank," she starts, "I need to talk to you," and his stomach flips--

_ohshitohshitohshit_

\--he thinks, and he takes a seat on the threadbare old chair in the corner. "You're -- not dying, are you?" he asks nervously, suddenly scared, and she says, "No," but doesn't smile.

"Frank," she says again, and looks like she's going to turn away but catches herself in time. She sighs, twisting her fingers nervously in her lap. "I don't know what to do. The police called this morning."

His first thought is the small packet of cannabis he's got stashed in his underwear drawer and he irrationally thinks _maybe I should cut my hair, my dreads probably stink of pot, I won't be able to deny it_, before his mind catches up to his mouth in time to stop him from confessing to something incriminating. Common sense tells him that this problem, whatever it is, isn't drugs related, but he still can't think of what it could be about.

"So, where were you last night?" she asks, deathly still apart from her ever-fidgeting hands scrabbling in her lap.

Frank shrugs, feeling like an unruly ten year old. "Out," he mutters, only half-surprised to discover that he sounds like one too. The clock's ticking relentlessly, a high-pitched sound that he's not sure if he's ever noticed before now.

His mom sighs and Frank doesn't have to look up from his feet to know that she's rolling her eyes right now. "Out _where_?" she presses in a 'so-you-want-to-do-it-the-hard-way-then' tone of voice and, not for the first time, Frank feels a pang of guilt.

"At a gig," he mumbles. "Playing."

"You're always at gigs these days," she says tiredly and adds, before he can retort, "Always _fighting_, Frank. I thought -- isn't it about the music anymore?"

It is, of course, but lately it's been about _more_ than that. About the atmosphere and the passion, the fighting and the ability to lose himself, and the music is only a part of it now. He doesn't know _when_ it became this, when it stopped being playful wrestling and _Fight Club_ imitations (although maybe he does, maybe it's since he Came Out, since he felt the need to prove that he was still _him_, still Frank, not some... some _fag_).

"Frank," she says clearly, pulling him out of his muddled reverie, and he meets her eyes for the first time. "You've been fighting a lot lately, don't think I don't know, but I haven't -- I didn't know what to _do_. You can be so difficult..." and she pauses for a moment, and he looks away so he doesn't have to see the disappointment on her face. "The police -- someone reported you for assault last night --"

"Fucking _Jake_!" The accusation bursts out of his mouth and he's half out of his seat before his mom snaps, "Sit _down_, Frank!"

He does, of course. The clock's still ticking.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about! When did you get so _violent_? I've done my best to bring you up properly -- you're so like your dad sometimes, maybe too much," she says tearfully, and the twist of her face makes something in his stomach twist in response, guilt shooting straight to his heart, a sharp ache right where it hurts the most. He _wants_ to do what she wants, but he can't seem to be someone she'd be proud of.

"Mom, I -- Don't say that, mom, I'm --"

"Shut up and _listen_ to me!" she barks and he sinks back into his seat, still restless. "The police want you to do two hundred hours of community service. You can get that done in ten months, it's not that much, just three hours on a Saturday and then an hour after school on two weekdays."

"But -- I don't _have_ to, right?" he asks, hopefully, desperately searching for a way out. "I mean, there's a fine or something? Instead?" He has some money set aside from selling Pencey EPs at shows, he can afford it. He _has_ to afford it. There's no way he's picking up _litter_, or coaching some kids' basketball team, like this is a fucking _Lifetime_ movie or some shit like that--

"No, you don't _have_ to." Her voice is so sharp it could cut glass. "But if you pay the fine, then you're not allowed to any more shows for ten months. I think that's fair." He opens his mouth to argue but her eyes narrow, and he changes his mind. "Playing _or_ watching, Frank."

Well, shit.

[//]

_"If you don't listen, you're never gonna learn."_

"Dude." Hambone stares at Frank in blatant disbelief, a forgotten french-fry still hanging out of his mouth. "You have _got_ to be shitting me."

Frank rests his head on the table, cushioned only slightly by his arms. He feels bad enough about this as it is without Hambone's need for overdramatics. He'd actually considered not telling them -- there was no real need to, right? -- but he'd dismissed the thought almost as soon as he'd had it. He tells Pencey almost everything, and he needs _someone_ to help him figure out what to do. He hadn't counted on how much they all suck at advice, though.

"No, Hambone, I'm not fucking _shitting_ you," Frank growls, still not used to the fringe of hair hanging over his eyes. "I had to unravel my fucking dreads, okay, my mom said I didn't look_respectable_ enough."

Neil sniggers unashamedly at this, reaching across the table to help himself to more of Frank's fries. "I was wondering why you looked like a fucking choir boy."

"No, but -- _dude_." Hambone stares at them all worriedly and Frank can't help wondering why; none of the others seem particularly concerned, finding it more amusing than anything. "You can still come to, like, band practices and shit?"

"I told you already, only if I do the community service." Frank raises his top lip in what passes for a sneer. "I was thinking of just paying the fine --"

"No! You can't!" Hambone glares at Tim. "Tell him!"

"What?" Tim frowns, more confused than anything, glancing at Shaun before his eyes widen and he appears to remember. "Oh shit, yeah!" he exclaims loudly, smacking the table with one hand and earning a disapproving look from a waitress. "Some guy from Eyeball Records, fucking Mikeyway or something, says he'll come out to one of our shows in a few months."

"Shit." Frank sits up from the table, giving up on any ideas he had of just paying the fine. "No way -- you're fucking with me."

"No, fuck no, I'm serious," Tim insists, and _shit_, talk about bad timing. "Seriously, Eyeball got our demo tape, they're sending someone out -- you can't fucking miss this, Frank," he adds unnecessarily.

"No shit," Frank snaps, ignoring Tim as he flips him off in response. "But -- this means I've got to do fucking community service --"

"It might not be that bad," Neil says reasonably at the same time as Shaun says, "You might as well, you've already fucked about with your dreadlocks," and they all snicker.

Frank is sure he's getting a headache. "There must be _some_ way to get out of this," he says miserably, already half-resigned to it, and Shaun shakes his head.

"'Fraid not, dude. Just tell your mom you'll do the service, it can't be that bad."

"Fuck, you might as well go the whole way and bleach your hair blonde," Tim jokes. "Look the fucking part, choir boy."

"Hey," says Hambone, as though a thought has just struck him. "You could -- there might be some chicks working there, you know --"

Frank is sure he's not the only one staring at Hambone right now. "Dude, I. I'm _gay_, you _know_ that."

"Oh. Yeah." Hambone flushes, as though he forgot. "I just. Frank, man, you don't _act_ it."

If it was anyone else, Frank would be pissed off at that statement. He hates the stereotype of the campy queer, for lack of a better phrase, but at the same time he knows what Hambone means. He _doesn't_ act it. He hangs around with Pencey, he's not flamboyant, but why should he be? Whatever. He shakes his head, and regains his arrogant smirk. "Dude, yeah, if I was straight you know I'd be with Jamia."

"Or if _she_ was straight," Neil points out. "Unless you're a straight chick. Which -- what, how did we get onto this subject?"

"'We'? It was all _you_," Frank shoots back, grinning. "If you wish I was a chick, Neil, man, you only have to ask. I mean, I don't know what kind of kinky shit you're into --"

"Shut up!" Neil yelps, throwing a fry at Frank who doesn't waste any time retaliating.

"I won't judge you, man!"

Tim starts laughing as a fry hits him as well, and the other boys join in quickly. All talk of Frank's community service is forgotten, and it only returns briefly to Frank's own mind right after the red-headed waitress asks them to leave.

[//]

_"What I'm really noticing, though, is how much I miss Mikey. Fuck, man, I miss the shit out of him. I'm so pissed off he isn't here. I want him to come back as soon as humanly possible."_

They play one last show before Frank's community service and it feels to him almost as though they should leave it at that; One Last Show. He wants a good atmosphere, he wants a buzz, he wants to feel alive, but it feels way too solemn and playing _The Secret Goldfish_ doesn't help. It seems serious, an end to something, and Frank's always had a problem with change. He wants things to go on forever, never ending. Sometimes he can't accept that they won't.

It's over quickly, _too_ quickly as always, and Frank's jumping down from the stage almost straight away. He's not in the mood to hang around for the other bands tonight; he just wants to go home and go to sleep. He's supposedly starting community service in the morning despite the fact that his mom hasn't told him where and, although he should be savouring his night of freedom, he's too tired. Exhausted, even.

He's almost out of the door when Shaun grabs his hand to stop him. Frank tries to shake him off impatiently, but Shaun doesn't let go. "Dude. _Dude_, listen to me."

Frank sighs, loudly, making sure that Shaun knows just how unwilling he is before folding his arms across his chest and saying, "Fine, okay? You have two minutes. Go."

"You're such a fag sometimes," Shaun mutters under his breath and Frank resists the urge to roll his eyes, knowing that Shaun's familiar smirk would cross his face. The Pencey boys -- and Jamia, on occasion -- are the only ones who Frank allows to call him a fag, mainly because he knows they don't mean it.

"What is it?" Frank asks, careful not to let his curiosity show, and Shaun grins.

"Someone I want you to meet," he states, and pulls Frank over to a quieter corner of the dark club. He doesn't let go of his hand and the corners of Frank's mouth quirk up into a smile.

"Aw, Shaun, I never knew you cared."

Shaun glances down at their interlocked hands before letting go, ignoring the snickers of the people around them. "Sorry, Iero, you should know by now that I'm way out of your league." Frank half-heartedly bats his eyelashes, but the effect is lost amid the flashing lights and he's not bothered enough to emphasise it anyway. His weariness is lost now to curiosity, and he's interested in why Shaun's dragged him over here. All of Pencey Prep are there, and another guy that Frank half-recognises. He steps forward, and points at him.

"Hey, aren't you -- didn't you audition once?" The guy's expression doesn't change, but he nods slowly.

"Yeah."

"Wow, not a big talker, huh?" Frank flashes him a grin and is surprised despite himself when the guy smiles back. Usually people dislike Frank on meeting him; he's loud and obnoxious, and he's been called an asshole more than once. 

"Frank," Neil says, cutting him off before he carries on talking, "this is Mikeyway. From Eyeball."

"Oh shit, wow, you're Mikeyway?" Frank's impressed, which is rare. After the guys had mentioned Mikey might be coming to see them, Frank had asked around about him -- turns out Mikey's a pretty big deal in the New Jersey music scene. Frank isn't sure why, but everyone's heard of him and Mikey's apparently down with _all_ the good bands.

Mikey nods, again. Frank supposes there's nothing you can really say to that.

"So what did you think?" Tim asks bluntly, getting straight to the point, and Mikey shrugs.

"I've only seen one live show so far," he points out. "I'm not going to make a decision yet. I need to like, listen to your CD. And stuff," he adds solemnly.

"You haven't listened to our CD yet?" Frank's disappointed, although that's mainly because he likes to believe that every single person at their shows has listened to their CD. Mikey shakes his head. It's sort of understandable. Everyone else starts to drift off, but Frank's not in the mood for going home anymore and he hopes Mikey isn't either. "Hey, man. Do you want to like, get a drink?"

Three drinks later, and Frank's pretty sure that Mikey is his new best friend. Not in a completely wasted _dude, you know I love you, right?_ kind of way, but a _hey, this guy is actually really cool_ kind of way. Mikey's been asking about the band, about what Frank thinks of it, what it means to him, and Frank knows that Mikey's asking because he's interested, not because he works at Eyeball Records. It wouldn't make any difference to Frank's answers though, not really. Frank's always been bluntly honest; he doesn't know any other way.

"So, uh, my mom -- well, my parents separated when I was younger," Frank explains. He's never had any problem talking about his family life -- it happened, it's over, and he's fine with it. If other people aren't, well, that's _their_ problem. "My dad totally supports it; they're all musicians on his side, and my grandpa? Huge influence on me. But, my mom, she doesn't like it." He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "It's not that -- she wants me to be happy, but. We haven't, we don't always have much money, and... well, she wants me to be secure, you know? And music, it's. It's not that secure." He shrugs, again. "What about you, Mikeyway? Tell me about your family."

Mikey grins at him, and Frank knows he's asked the right question. He sees the way Mikey's eyes light up when he mentions his brother and can't help smiling; Frank's an only child and always been thankful for that but when Mikey talks about his brother, Frank feels sort of like he's been missing out.

One more drink, and Frank really does have to go -- he and Mikey exchange numbers, though, and he doesn't feel like his night's been entirely wasted.

[//]

_"Homophobia is gay."_

Frank was very careful not to drink enough to get a hangover, and on Saturday morning he really appreciates that. Getting out of bed at half ten in the morning is probably not the biggest sacrifice he's ever made, but it's just knowing that he _has_ to get up that really does it to him. It's an effort, even without the pounding headache that he usually gets after a show, and after he's dragged himself out of bed he really just wants to get back in.

He manages to make it downstairs, not bothering to get dressed. His boxers are good enough for now, and what he _really_ needs is a coffee. And maybe some food. His mom's at the counter already, and she sets a steaming mug down in front of him. He sort of loves her a lot right now.

"You're up early," she says neutrally, as though she's forgotten about community service. She hasn't, though. It's there between them, unspoken, serving only to add to the tension.

"Yeah, well," he mutters, bending his face over the mug. "You said I had to be there for about one o'clock, it takes me an hour to eat breakfast."

"And an hour to get dressed?" she asks, sounding amused, but Frank ignores her and instead takes a gulp from his mug, the hot liquid burning his throat. He's not in the mood to joke around with her, she'd told him about community service last night, when she was sure he'd be too tired and exhausted to argue. It's sort of sad, he thinks, that she has to get him when he's tired. The knowledge that he has no one to blame but himself rips through his gut and rises like bile up his throat.

He throws away the rest of his coffee and takes a few slices of toast upstairs. Suddenly, he's not hungry anymore.

Frank doesn't know what to wear, and it's not a problem he's ever had before. He's used to grabbing his clothes from the floor, sniffing them warily to see which are clean and which aren't. He's never thought of his clothes are 'unsuitable', but he's going to a thrift store, and he's fairly sure it's going to be all old people and kids. He has jeans which are too ripped and holey, and jeans which are way too tight. Shirts which are offensive, and shirts which are just about rags. 

In the end, he digs out a pair of normal blue jeans, which have only a few tiny holes in the knees, and aren't completely rank. He pulls them on but they're at least two sizes too big, and maybe that's why he's never really worn them before. He doesn't have any belts which aren't covered in spikes, or studs, so he steals the first one he finds from his mom's room. Pink is totally metrosexual, okay. He doesn't have any plain shirts, so he turns a white one inside out and cuts the label off, hoping no one will look at him enough to notice.

He figures he looks respectable enough, even if his hair is ragged from the dreadlocks, and so he pulls on his sneakers and gives his mom a kiss on the cheek before heading out of the door. The journey to the store is boring enough, just a long bus ride spent staring morosely out of the window, tinny music blasting through his headphones into his ears. When he gets there, it looks as though the next three hours of his life are going to be equally boring. Maybe even worse, because he's pretty sure he won't be allowed to listen to the Bouncing Souls at, what, the fucking Children's Society.

It takes him five minutes of sighing and staring at the entrance, but he does make it inside. There's some woman behind the counter, looking bored out of her mind and about seventy if she's a day, and she's got jet black hair and way too much fucking eyeliner on. Frank thinks for a second that maybe it won't be too bad, then realises he's pinning his hopes on some kind of senior citizen, and instead just sort of hovers. Awkwardly.

She sees him first. "Hey there, dollface, you here just for the eye candy?" She winks, over-exaggeratedly, and Frank can't help laughing because she's not gross or -- well, she is weird, but not in any of the ways Frank thought she'd be. 

He leans against the counter. "Actually, I'm your new work mate. Colleague, whatever."

"Ah, you're that Frank kid," she says cheerfully, and it's possibly the first time Frank hasn't objected to being called a kid. This lady's like, older than anyone he knows, he figures she deserves it. "I'm Elena."

"Elena," Frank says, "Nice to meet you," and when she extends a hand, he kisses it instinctively. She laughs, raising an eyebrow, but he knows it was the right move. This lady -- Elena -- she's like, like fucking _royalty_.

"Oh, you're going to be trouble," she says almost fondly, yanking her hand away. "Don't think you can take those liberties with _me_, mister." Frank grins, easy and natural, nothing like the smirk he usually wears. Elena flashes a grin in return, beckoning him around to the other side of the counter and handing him a pin with the Children's Society logo on it and 'VOLUNTEER' printed underneath. "Let's make it official."

"So, uh. What do I, like, actually _do_?" Frank asks, after five minutes of leaning on the counter and watching people wander around the store.

Elena shrugs. "Anything that needs doing, sweetie. I'll show you how to work the till at some point. You can dress the people in the window if they need it -- I call them Robert and Clarice," she confides, and it takes Frank a few moments to realise she's talking about the mannequins. "You'll pick most of it up as you go along. I'll just tell you what to do, and you can do it."

It seems simple enough. Turns out, there's an awful lot of just standing around, and Frank's always had a short attention span. To pass the time, he makes idle conversation with Elena, taking turns to ask each other questions.

One of the first things Elena asks is "So, what did you do this weekend? Anything interesting?" just like she's Frank's age and not, like, however old she actually is.

Frank can't help himself from grinning widely, he loves getting a chance to talk about his band, about his _music_, but he has to remind himself not to get too carried away. Just because he could happily talk about Pencey -- fuck, about any aspect of music -- for _hours_, does not mean that everyone else could happily listen for that long. So he tones it down a few notches, makes himself take a few breaths before speaking.

"I played a show. That is, my band did, I'm in a band."

Elena's eyes widen marginally. "That's _lovely_," she says, more enthusiastically than Frank anticipated. "I love music. Darling, what kind of music is it? Is it -- that, that metal?"

Frank can't help a smirk twisting his lips slightly, but it's a way friendlier one than he's used to. "It's -- no, not metal. I'm more of a punk rock kid myself, y'know?" He adds the _y'know?_automatically, not actually expecting her to know at all, but Elena nods like she knows what he's talking about.

"The Misfits," she tells him knowledgeably, and now Frank's nodding, eyes wide.

"Yes! Fuck yes!" He exclaims it a little too loud, like he always does when he's talking about something he's passionate about, and more than a few people look over with raised eyebrows, whispering to each other. He doesn't flush, just winks at the nearest one, ignoring the disapproving gasp and turns back to Elena. "Yeah, yeah, I love the Misfits, for real -- they're like, like fucking Jersey spirit," he adds, making sure to keep his voice down this time.

Elena smiles. "I'll have to come and see your band play a concert sometime," she tells him and Frank nods along because that, that would be _really_ fucking rad, actually.

"What about you?" he asks, half out of politeness and half out of genuine interest. "How was _your_ weekend?"

"Oh, my weekend was very pleasant, thank you," she replies, taking a t-shirt from the customer and ringing it up. She hands it to Frank, who stuffs it into a plastic bag before handing it back over. The customer doesn't seem to realise, just waits for their change and receipt before leaving, but Elena does. "Fold it next time," she reminds him, before frowning slightly. "What was I saying? Oh, yes, my grandsons came over -- such _nice_ boys."

"Really?" Frank asks dryly, careful not to let his sarcasm show. The very mention of '_nice_ boys' amuses the asshole part of him -- which, to be quite honest, is a lot bigger than he'd like. Mind you, Elena is the kind of lady that'd probably describe _him_ as a 'nice boy', and the very thought of that is laughable at best. Still, she doesn't seem to have registered his cynicism.

"Oh, yes," she repeats, a faint smile quirking her mouth. "Gerard and Michael."

"Nice," Frank replies, although really he's thinking _they're probably tools_. They're both distracted, anyway, by a lady buying ten rolls of wallpaper; Frank's got to take the labels out of every roll except for one, so she can't return them to the store and get the full price. It's annoying and time-consuming -- bundling them up, he can't help wishing that he'd never touched Jake, and that's something he never imagined he'd be regretting.

The lady's daughter smiles at him as they walk off but Frank doesn't register it, too busy leaning on the counter and thinking that maybe, instead of never punching Jake, he should've made sure he'd got some _good_ ones in -- right in his fucking face, at least. _Did_ he get one in his face? He can't remember, and Elena interrupts his thoughts as he's trying to replay the event in his head.

"She seemed nice," she says carefully, as though she's trying to imply something, but Frank's still half in thought so he just shrugs. "Didn't you think she was pretty?"

"Sure," he replies, non-committal, giving up on his daydreams of punching Jake in the face. Repeatedly. "Yeah, she... wait, what?"

Elena smiles, although she seems confused. "That girl, the one that was smiling at you."

Frank blinks, and has the distinct feeling that he's having a different conversation to Elena. "There was a girl smiling at me?"

Elena reaches over, and pats his shoulder. "Maybe she wasn't your type." It's a lot more accurate than Elena knows, and Frank can't help snorting rudely. He catches himself, stops, but still has to deal with Elena's face when he looks up. She raises an eyebrow, suddenly icy. "Something you want to share, dear?"

"Uh." Frank rubs a hand across his face while he tries to think of what to do next. Elena doesn't seem like the kind of person he can bullshit, but he's usually not so open with his sexuality. He doesn't _hide_ it or anything, he just doesn't feel the need to tell people, to announce it like it's some sort of big deal. If he does tell someone, it's usually someone he's pretty sure he can punch in the face if they take it badly. And Frank would feel like a dick if he punched Elena. Besides, he's pretty sure she could kick his ass.

She's still waiting, eyebrow raised, and Frank decides _fuck it_. "She's _not_ my type," he agrees, cautiously.

"And why would that be?" Elena encourages him, and Frank's suddenly got a feeling that she knows already, has known since he walked in the door.

"Because she's a _girl_," he blurts out, like it's some big deal, like he's suddenly in kindergarten and girls have cooties again. Elena just smiles, and turns back to rearranging the tacky pieces of jewellery they have in a glass cabinet.

"My grandson's gay," she tells him, sounding almost proud, although she's probably more proud of her grandson than his sexuality. "Gerard."

"Oh," Frank says, more out of the need to reply than any actual interest.

Elena turns around and looks at him properly, hands on hips, and an inappropriate laugh bubbles up inside him because it's like she's his fucking _grandma_ or something, and he only met the lady about an hour ago. "Don't take that tone with me, young man, I'm not senile," she tells him sternly. "I was telling you that so you knew I wouldn't judge you or disapprove, like some silly people do."

"Thank you," Frank says solemnly, and he kind of means it, too.

[//]

_"My parents split up when I was pretty young, my mom was kind of left to take care of everything. There were times when we really couldn't even afford milk."_

Frank gets home at five o'clock and is actually exhausted. More emotionally, than anything; he's not used to being around, like, _adults_ for so long. Not just that, but so many different people. It's mostly older people that come into the shop, and they all seem pleasantly surprised to see him behind the counter. One little old lady had even confided to him, in a whisper, that she "really liked seeing the young people helping out". It was odd for Frank to feel like a good kid. He still isn't used to it.

On the basis of that, he'd taken Tim's advice and picked up a bottle of blond dye on his way home. His hair's pretty fucked at the minute, all raggedy and in his face and not even one solid colour, and he feels like doing something different. Like Tim said, he might as well look the part. His mom's waiting for him when he gets home, some kind of vegan stir-fry on the table. A flush of warmth goes through him as he sits down to eat; he knows how much trouble she goes to, making him vegan food, and he _does_ appreciate it.

"So?" she says softly and he hates this, hates how _careful_ they both are around each other.

He's tempted to repeat 'So?', to parrot it back to her, but he's too tired for that and instead he takes a bite of stir-fry before replying. "Yeah, it was okay. Pretty cool, the lady I work with is laidback, so."

She smiles, a proper smile, blooming across her face before she realises. "That's good. I'm glad -- I never wanted you to hate it, Frank."

He wants to say sorry for everything, tell her that he knows it can't be easy, but it's too soon for that. Instead, he leans over the table. "So we had this really freaky guy today, right?"

He's cut off by the shrilling of the phone and she checks the Caller ID before making an apologetic face. "I'm sorry, sweetie, I _really_ have to take this..."

He genuinely doesn't mind; he knows she wouldn't take it unless it was urgent, and they're making progress, both of them. He just nods and it's lucky, really, because his own phone vibrates in his pocket and when he checks the screen, it says _mikeyway_. He flips it open, pushing back his chair and heading upstairs.

"Hey, man. What's up?"

"Nothin' much," Mikey says, almost straight away. "I just -- I'm bored, and I have no one to talk to. Is it -- it's not a problem, right?"

"No!" Frank says, louder than he meant to, and sits down on his bed. "No, seriously, dude, I would've called you or something otherwise. So hey, how's it going?"

"Not bad, actually," Mikey responds, and Frank's pleased by how easy it is. He was worried that they'd had one of those conversations that's magical when drunk, and then just doesn't translate when sober the next day. He's happily surprised, that's it, surprised that Mikeyway is every bit as awesome as he'd remembered.

They've been talking for a while when Frank hears a mumble in the background on the other end of the phone, and Mikey immediately says, "One minute." Frank holds the line, listening while Mikey has a conversation with someone; _yeah, it's totally cool... no, no, go for it, seriously... I'm not kidding, it's -- yeah_. It's possibly the most enthusiasm Frank has ever heard in Mikey's voice. Mikey comes back on the line a few minutes later, monotone back in place.

"Dude, who was that?" Frank asks straight away.

"My brother," Mikey says, as though it should be obvious. "Yeah, no, he was showing me this, this stuff he's drawn. He's, like, a comic book artist."

Frank's ears perk up at that. "For real?"

"Sort of," Mikey says evasively, which Frank knows to mean _no_, but only in the real world. In Mikey's head, he's pretty sure his brother is like... like fucking Steve Ditko, or someone. "He's an_artist_. And he draws, like, comics. So."

"Wow," Frank says vaguely, thoughts going elsewhere. Mikey coughs, quietly, and Frank knows Mikey well enough by now to know that means Mikey wants a proper response. "No, seriously, that's really rad. You'll have to like, show me some of his shit sometime or something."

"I will," Mikey promises. "Or -- hey, you should come over."

Frank laughs. "Maybe we should hang out more before then, Mikeyway," he says, careful not to hurt Mikey's feelings. The kid's cool and all -- _kid_, what, he's older than Frank is -- but not cool enough to warrant Frank hanging out with like, his creepy comic book artist of a brother or whatever. "I mean, you don't _know_ me; I could be like, like a serial killer or some shit."

"What, like fucking Leatherface?" Mikey responds, and that sends them off into a discussion of _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_. 

[//]

_"I feel like an 8-year old smoker, just wheezing my way to the trailer."_

"Sweetie!" Elena exclaims, when she sees him. "Your hair!"

"Oh, uh, yeah." Frank runs a hand through his newly-bleached blond fauxhawk, causing it to stick up even more. "Yeah, I just did it the other day. The guy that was here earlier didn't seem too impressed though."

Elena laughs, and Frank can't help warming to her. "He's such a killjoy, sweetheart, ignore him. I think it looks lovely. My grandson went blond once, although it didn't suit him half as much."

"Oh," Frank remembers, "the gay one, right?"

"Right," Elena agrees. "Most of the time, I think he's trying to be Liza Minelli."

Great, Frank thinks. Elena is trying to set him up with just the kind of boy he's always tried to avoid -- probably into musicals and campy as fuck. Hopefully, he can avoid ever meeting this..._Gerard_.

Elena hands him some jeans, and a shirt, and tells him he has to dress the mannequin in the window -- "Robert," she says thoughtfully. Frank sighs, but takes the clothes anyway; he has problems saying no to Elena. She's just too... _awesome_, if he's being honest. Sort of like Mikeyway, only it's really easy to say no to Mikey just in an effort to get the boy to actually _speak_. 

Frank really hates dressing the mannequin though. There's a sort of platform by the window that they stand on and Frank's really the only one who can do it safely; he's small enough and light enough to be able to stand on it, whereas all the others have to turn the mannequins to face them, making it more difficult. He ducks between the two mannequins, already calling them Robert and Clarice in his head, just because it's easier. He wobbles a little bit, puts a hand out to steady himself, and refuses to look outside the window because he knows he'll already have drawn an audience.

Before he started working here, Frank was totally the kind of guy who'd stop and laugh at the people doing window displays. Now, he would just keep on walking. Because to be quite honest? He never appreciated how fucking annoying it actually was trying to dress one of those things. He's just lucky Robert and Clarice don't have arms, he can't imagine how much worse it'd be then. Tugging a too-small shirt on over the damn thing's head because the manager says "It _will_ fit, Frank, and if you rip it you're paying for it" -- because of _course_ he can't quite spare that fifty cents it'll cost -- and trying not to knock the whole thing over is just more trouble than it's worth.

It's better than doing nothing, Frank supposes. He usually doesn't mind just leaning on the counter, talking to Elena because she's an interesting chick, but after an hour it does get pretty repetitive, and they don't even always get interesting people in. Lately he's taken to picking out a book from the shelves to read when it's slow, a guy dropped off a lot of Stephen King novels last week and Frank's been working his way through those. It's just annoying when he gets halfway through because he doesn't bother taking them home, and then he can't always find them next week. 

He's been complaining about this to Elena, who rolls her eyes. "You should just buy them, sweetheart, I've already told you. You could always get the money back next week."

"It's not about that," Frank insists. "I never bring any money with me, anyway, you know that."

"Yes, I do, and I also know that you mention this every week. I'm sorry, I just thought that you might have brought some money with you today," Elena points out, pursing her lips.

Frank sighs. "I _meant_ to. But I forget. C'mon, I forgot my jacket this morning." The guy on the other side of the counter snorts, and Frank effectively silences him with a glare. He's beginning to think that the hardcore scene is pretty good training for working in a thrift store. Elena can be one fierce bitch when she wants to be ("_No_, sir, you can _not_ have a discount, we are a charity _store_, not a _charity_!"). Frank's been taking notes. He thinks it'll help if ever runs into Jake again.

Elena shakes her head, a familiar disappointed look on her face. Frank feels like she's fucking adopted him or something (not that he'd mind, because sometimes she bakes on the weekend and leaves things upstairs in the locker room for him to eat, and seriously. _Seriously_, she makes really good fucking cookies. Also, she's, y'know. Awesome). "Frank, look at the weather."

Now it's Frank's turn to roll his eyes, leaning heavily on the counter and ignoring the guy who's still waiting to be served. "I _know_," he groans, "I know, okay?" Because it was a really shitty day for Frank to forget his jacket, considering how it's practically a fucking thunder storm outside. In his defence, it'd just been a little cloudy when he set off. He'd been preoccupied. His mom was being unusually quiet and it probably means she's got a new boyfriend or she's missing Frank's dad. Either way, it's not good.

"Dear," Elena starts and Frank cuts her off because he really, really can't have this conversation right now.

"I'm going to go check on the stock," he says loudly, which is code for 'make sure people aren't stealing shit'. Elena doesn't let him say that anymore though. She just tuts under her breath and rolls her eyes again, and he's totally going to call her on that because she hates it when he does the same to her. Not right now, though. He can wait.

'Check on the stock' means, at this point in time, 'rearrange the children's display' though. Frank had never really been one for stuffed toys, they got in the way more than anything, but now he kind of likes having his arms full of them. There's something sort of reassuring about the yellow elephant, in particular. Frank groans quietly to himself. All the crazy in the store seems to be rubbing off on him.

"I'm going for a cigarette," he yells to Elena, knowing she'll be cool with it -- the lady smokes like a chimney -- and heads outside without waiting for an answer, lighting up almost before he's out of the store. The first drag is, as always, almost magical. It's not that Frank hates fresh air or anything, it's just that fresh air is just usually really cold. Also harsh. And it hurts his lungs. A breath of cigarette smoke, though, has taste and texture and it just... it feels _good_ for him. He's fully aware of how dumb this is, by the way.

Some guy walks past, stops. "You know those things will kill you."

Frank barely glances at him; sees only greasy black hair and pasty skin. "I don't plan on living that long anyway."

The guy smiles, leans on the wall next to him and, yeah, Frank's not an asshole -- not always -- but he's had a shitty day and the last thing he needs is some do-gooder trying to get him to quit. Like his mom hasn't gone down all those routes already, including the guilt trip. Which is why the next few words out of the guy's mouth surprise him. "You got a spare one?"

Frank hands one over, reluctantly. "You know they'll kill you," he echoes back, sharp enough to be cruel.

The guy smiles again, but it's fainter this time, and he ducks his head as though he's hiding behind his curtain of nasty hair. Frank feels almost proud of his clean blonde fauxhawk; he couldn't feel so superior if he still had his dreadlocks. "Yeah, I know."

Frank's cellphone bleeps a few times, signalling the end of his shifts, and he stubs his cigarette out on the wall. He says, "'Bye," but only out of politeness and walks off without waiting for a response. The guy looked like kind of a dork anyway.

[//]

_"Yeah, I think we're a pretty sexy band. Look at Gerard, he can shake his ass. Hire us and Gerard will shake his ass for you all. He's bringing sexy back."_

When Frank turns up for work next week, there's a collapsed guy on the floor outside work and a circle of people surrounding them. Since this is Jersey, he pretty much figures that the guy is drunk or high or both and walks around the crowd to get into the store. He's got a bad fucking hangover and the Pencey guys have been slightly off with him lately, Frank can't figure out why. He's been trying to talk to Hambone about it, Hambone of _all people_ should talk to him, but he's just been ignoring Frank's calls.

Inside, the weird kid with bad hair is on the phone behind the counter. Frank does not fucking have time for this, okay. He walks upstairs to take his jacket off (he remembered it this week! He was almost out of the house and then, _yes_, he remembered his jacket. It is a personal triumph) and stash his 'valuables' in the locker -- although in reality, that's basically only a few dollars and his cellphone.

When he comes back down, the kid's still behind the counter, this time peering anxiously towards the window. Frank frowns a little, and leans on the counter, facing the kid. "What's going on?" He means it to ask why the kid is behind the counter, but the guy takes it as though he's referring to the events outside which, honestly? Frank had almost forgotten about.

"Oh, shit," the guy starts, wide eyed and flailing, "some guy's like, I don't know, man, I think he's _dying_ out there."

The familiar wail of an ambulance comes into hearing distance and Frank rolls his eyes, "You know he's probably just completely wasted." The guy looks confused. Frank mentally facepalms. "You know, like... drugs?"

"Oh!" The guy flushes. "Yeah, I got that. I just. I don't think he is."

"Well, whatever." Frank brushes it off, deciding not to argue, and instead arches an eyebrow. "And you are...?"

"Gerard," the guy mumbles, hiding behind his hair again. He doesn't offer any more explanation than that, and Frank's head is hurting even more. Luckily, Carl-the-manager brushes past them, sparing Frank a glance.

"Oh, Frank, I see you've met Elena's boy." He ignores Frank's scowl, choosing instead to keep talking. "Elena can't make it in today so she sent Gerard. You'll be working together. I'm going for my lunch, don't kill each other," he adds, glaring specifically in Frank's direction. Frank folds his arms across his chest, glaring back. Gerard looks terrified.

There's no music playing, which is unusual, and Frank only realises when he's wondering why it's so silent. He moves behind the counter and Gerard instinctively flinches away from him, causing Frank to laugh. "Oh man, I'm not going to, like, bite." He can't help smirking when he says that though, and Gerard doesn't look particularly reassured. "Seriously, dude, I just want to put the radio on."

He manages to move past Gerard to get to the radio, but has to push past him -- there's not a lot of room behind the counter, and Gerard doesn't make it any easier for him. What a miserable fucking kid, seriously. (Frank calls everyone 'kids', even if they're obviously older than him.) He can't tell how Gerard's related to Elena, for real. Maybe all the awesome genes got passed on to the other one, whatever his name is. Frank can't even remember, so maybe he can't be _that_ awesome.

They stand behind the counter, and the radio doesn't do a very good job of filling up the silence between them. Frank kind of really wants Elena back.

_"..and although_ The Dark Knight _seems to be the hit of the summer so far, my personal favourite summer flick was the musical extravaganza of _Mamma Mia!_, but that could just be because I've always been a closet ABBA fan... so, here's the title hit!"_

'Mamma Mia!' starts playing, loudly, and at least half of the customers in the store grin at each other. The crazy old guy starts mumbling along, his breath sour with vodka. Frank can't help smiling. He leans heavily on the counter, resigning himself to three hours of watching the store in silence, when the counter starts wobbling. It's barely noticeable at all, really, just the kind of tiny movement made by someone leaning on it, but Gerard doesn't seem to be moving.

Frank frowns, slightly. It's annoying him more than a little bit, and after a few minutes he stands back, leaning against the wall. Glancing around, he finds the source of the wobbles, and grins. Gerard is, apparently unconsciously, wiggling his ass in time to the music and Frank has to slap a hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing out loud. He was totally right about this boy being a dork, but he's also sort of adorable. _Mamma Mia!_, seriously? He remembers what Elena said about Gerard being into musicals, and this time he can't help snorting under his breath.

Gerard hears him, looks round. He doesn't ask what Frank's laughing at, though, instead he nods him over. "Hey. Check out that guy."

Frank does, and his eyes narrow. The guy is trying to be subtle, stuffing a heavy jacket into a bag, but he's looking around way too nervously. He catches sight of them watching him and starts to run, and Frank's halfway over the counter before Gerard's hand is on his wrist, jerking him back.

"Hey, what the fuck?" Frank snaps, still tugging at Gerard's hand. "You -- that guy's _stealing_ shit, Gerard, shit from a _thrift store_."

Gerard rolls his eyes. "No shit. What exactly do you plan on doing about it?" Frank opens his mouth, then closes it again. Gerard shrugs, letting go of his wrist and leaning on the counter again. "See?"

Frank folds his arms over his chest, sulky. "I could punch him in the face and take the shit back."

Gerard smiles, nervously, as though remembering that Frank's been kind of an asshole to him. "Yeah, but that wouldn't... it wouldn't help. The guy could, like, sue the store."

"He's a _thief_," Frank repeats petulantly. "And it'd fucking make me feel better."

"It happens all the time, you can't punch everyone out. Besides, all this shit is donated, so it's not like we're making a loss."

"It's still _wrong_," Frank insists and Gerard's eyes flash with something he can't recognise.

"Tell me about it." Frank assumes the conversation is over, but Gerard's not done. "It just pisses me off so much that we're here and we're trying to make a difference, y'know, I mean, trying to _help_ people, and then these motherfuckers just..." He trails off, voice weakening, and glances at Frank. "Never mind, anyway."

Frank had been about to thank him for stopping him, because if it had got back to, like, _anyone_ that Frank had punched someone else then he'd probably have got more than just community service but now... he kind of doesn't want to admit to Gerard that he's not just doing this out of the goodness of his heart.

Which, yeah. It's kind of ridiculous, right? The silence takes over again, anyway, and Frank amuses himself with wandering around the store. When he gets back, Gerard looks like he's stroking a unicorn's mane and Frank is kind of confused. He leans over the counter, squinting. "I. What are you doing?"

Gerard flushes uncomfortably but doesn't stop. "She's -- It's got something in its mane, it's really gross. I'm trying to get it out." His mouth goes all twisty as he frowns at the unicorn, and Frank is sort of intrigued. "I think I'm going to have to cut it out, though."

"Why?" Frank leaned further over, peering at the unicorn. "People don't expect, like, like fucking quality at a thrift store."

Gerard's mouth twists further and he doesn't look up from where he's carefully cutting the gross shit out of the unicorn's mane. "My brother really likes unicorns. I thought I'd get it for him, it's only a dollar."

"Oh." Frank doesn't really care. "Cool, I guess. My friend has a dress with a unicorn on, maybe your brother would like it."

Gerard glances up at him, a small crease visible between his eyes. "What?"

"Oh!" Frank repeats, thinking over what he's just said. "No, I mean. Like it to look at, I guess. Unless he's into girls' clothes?" He means it as a joke but the crease between Gerard's eyes gets sharper, and he bends his head over the unicorn again. Frank sighs, kicking his heels against the counter. This is going to be such a long fucking day.

[//]

_"Gerard....Well, he's just himself. We talk....We cry....And he's still Gerard Way."_

It’s been a few weeks and Gerard’s worked with Frank every shift he’s had, and Frank’s still a bit confused by him. For a start, it’s really fucking awkward; he has nothing to say to the guy, and Gerard doesn’t really seem to be enjoying it any more than Frank is. Sighing, Frank leans forward and hits the button for the receipt. It stutters out of the till, blank, and Frank rips a section off. Picking up a pen, he starts scribbling -- not lyrics, he's not feeling _that_ inspired, just... words, really. Just words.

Glancing over at him, Gerard does the same, but Frank barely notices. He's too intent on the words, _outside it's only raining but i'm still here_, and somewhere in the back of his mind he vaguely acknowledges that maybe it's not a good idea for neither of them to be concentrating on the shop. He frowns, pushing the paper aside, and since when did he have a conscience anyway? 

Frank leans back against the wall, raising his hands over his head and cracking his knuckles. Gerard glances up at him, and Frank thinks he's going to glare at him or some shit, but Gerard is engrossed in his drawing again almost straight away. Shrugging it off, Frank wanders around the store, rearranging some clothes but mostly making sure no one is stealing shit. Not, of course, that he's allowed to do anything to stop the motherfuckers if they do.

He goes back behind the counter, bored out of his mind, and peers over Gerard's shoulder at the drawing. It's only blue biro, on shitty till receipt paper, but _wow_. Holy roll-me-over-in-the-clover, Batman, Frank thinks to himself and giggles, accidentally alerting Gerard to his presence. He'd thought that Gerard was aware of him anyway, considering the fact that Frank was practically breathing down his neck, but apparently Gerard gets _really_ fucking intense when he's drawing. Gerard flushes a dull red colour that creeps up from his neck, and snatches the paper away before Frank can make out more than a face looking out, looking _alive_.

"Hey, hey, dude, no, let me see," Frank begs, reaching across Gerard who seems a little uncomfortable with all the contact but still holds the paper out of reach. "Seriously, c'mon, man, what're you hiding?" He leans further over Gerard, pushing up against him just enough to make Gerard flinch and loosen his grip on the paper. It's over in a second, but Frank's been in enough fights to know that you've got to take your moments where you can get them, and he's smoothing the paper out on the counter before Gerard is entirely sure about what's just happened.

And it's _Frank_. There's a slight scowl twisting his mouth and his few tattoos on his arms haven't been filled in, but it's still almost like looking into a reflection -- so much so that Frank's a little taken aback, not going to lie. "Woah," he says softly, eyes big and round (and later, when forced to pinpoint the minute he fell in love with Gerard, that, right there. That was probably it). "That's --"

"Really fucking weird, I know," Gerard mumbles angrily, snatching the paper back, and his entire face is a sort of mottled red colour. "Whatever, man, you don't have to say."

"No, that's not what I was going to say, I swear," Frank insists, trying in vain to grab the paper back from Gerard's clenched fist. "_Please_ let me see it, Gerard, Gee, please? I really like it, I want to keep it forever."

Gerard twitches a little bit. "'Gee'?"

"What, you don't like the nickname?" Frank pouts, hamming it up a little bit, and Gerard goes a darker shade of red and thrusts the paper at him.

"Here, take it. Whatever." He mutters something under his breath that sounds like _glad you've decided to stop being such an asshole_ and okay, Frank can let that one go, because maybe he has been a bit of an asshole, but whatever. Gerard is clearly one of those reclusive, tortured genius types and it's up to Frank to bring him out of his shell. Maybe working here won't be so bad after all.

He pockets the sketch and pins it up on his wall when he gets home.

Once Gerard's accepted that Frank likes his art -- or at least, you know, isn't thoroughly freaked out by the fact that Gerard was drawing pictures of him without his knowledge -- he's drawing all the time. Frank comes into work to find bits of torn off paper behind the counter, with weird little alien-looking creatures on them, or just sketches of people that have come into the shop. Frank likes the ones of him the best, although he suspects that's probably due to some form of narcissist tendencies.

They're all signed with a little scribble in the bottom right corner, _Gerard A Way_, it looks like. It's either an A or an R, anyway, and Frank spends maybe a little longer than he should thinking about what it might stand for. (Aaron doesn't sound right, neither does Rob. Too all-American). Some of them look like Gerard might almost have done them at home; they're neatly outlined with splashes of colour, but Frank's absolute favourites are the character sketches. They've clearly been done in a hurry, just scribbles of ink, and yet... the person is right _there_, just on the paper. Frank is kind of in awe of it, to be quite honest.

After a while, Frank starts coming into work a little bit early and waiting patiently behind the counter for Gerard to get there. When Gerard does, Frank beams. Gerard seems more than a little taken aback. "Hi, Gee!"

"Uh, hey, Frank," Gerard stuttered, taking his place on a stool behind the counter.

"So what's your favourite movie," Frank starts, like he's just picking up on a conversation they had last week. "Because, I mean, I love The Nightmare Before Christmas. I don't know if I could be down with anyone who's not a Burton fan, dude."

"I like Tim Burton," Gerard says cautiously. "I like, um, Ed Wood. But," he continues, gaining confidence, "I like his Batman best."

Frank pulls a face. "Seriously? With Nicholson's Joker? I don't know, man, I'm kind of on the fence about that one."

Gerard frowns, forgetting his reserve. "No, but seriously, Nicholson was awesome. I mean, I know a lot of people are saying that Nicholson just, y'know, acts the same character he always does, but I don't see it. I'd say the only bad thing about his Joker is that he sometimes, like, eclipses Keaton's Batman."

Frank shakes his head. "He hams it up way too much for my liking, it loses that... not realism, I don't know, like, Burton does the best he can but it's just missing something."

"No, but the Joker is a total ham!" Gerard argues. "Nicholson made the Joker entertaining, and the movies were, like, so much darker than anyone was used to."

"I'll give you that," Frank admits, then grins. "See? We're almost BFFs now. You lame movie geek, you," he teases and Gerard manages a smile back this time. It's progress.

"So, uh. What music do you like?" Gerard offers, and Frank's pretty sure he's going to wish he hadn't because the next three hours? He is going to talk Gerard's face off. 

[//]

_"The messenger is not as important as the message."_

Frank actually starts looking forward to work. Gerard turns out to be funny, geeky and smart and they actually have a lot in common. He finds himself leaning on the desk, and saying things to try and make that small smile creep across Gerard's face. He learns to read the expressions on Gerard's face; how one twist of his mouth means _I wish I hadn't said that_ and another means _Yeah, I know what you're saying but_. He notices when Gerard manages to stop second-guessing himself constantly, and argues with Frank without reserve.

"You know," Gerard says, out of the blue one day. "I'm kind of really glad you're working here."

Frank can't help blinking a few times, trying to catch up with the conversation. He wonders if it's something he's missed; Gerard has a tendency to do this sometimes, he'll start thinking back about conversations they've already had, and reply to something Frank had said five minutes ago. He mentally runs back over the past few minutes in his head, and can't think of anything that would lead to that.

He settles for a cautious, "Uh, okay?"

"No, but," Gerard continues, and Frank can tell that he's getting excited about this because he's starting to make gestures. Gerard's hand gestures are kind of epic, Frank loves them. "I mean, I don't know anyone else my age that, like, volunteers, you know? Elena does, but old people --" He cuts himself off, looking terrified. "Shit, no, don't tell her I called her old."

"I won't," Frank promises, laughing a little. He actually hasn't spoken to Elena in a while; it's a little sad, but she still says hi to him when she pops in sometimes at the end of his shift, and sometimes he stays a little later to catch up with her. "Dude, come on, get to the point." They have to break off to serve a customer, but it's probably good, it gives Gerard a little time to gather his thoughts. Sometimes, Frank knows, Gerard starts thinking before he's really thought through what he wants to say. It usually ends up in a distinct lack of coherency.

"Okay," Gerard says comfortably, once they've finished. "So, no one else my age really volunteers, and I was kind of becoming disillusioned with it? Like, I don't know, if no one else really cares about, like, _helping_ the children, why should I?" He pauses, to collect his thoughts, then continues. "So that was a shitty way to think, but it was lack of motivation, dude, I guess it happens. But then when _you_ came along --" and Frank can't help the stab of guilt at this point "-- it changed it. Because, if you want to make a difference, too, then I'm not the only one." Gerard pulls a face when he's finished, "Did I ramble? Do you know what I mean?"

Frank takes a few deep breaths, trying to decide what to say. He knows that he should tell Gerard that this is just community service but Gerard has the most earnest hazel eyes that Frank has ever seen and he kind of... can't. Hazel eyes, Frank decides, are his kryptonite. So instead he just nods, smiles, and says "Yeah, I know what you mean," and changes the subject.

They're in the middle of a passionate discussion about Jackson Pollock, no less, when Frank gets a punch in the arm and turns around to see a familiar face. "Jamia!" He's about to throw himself on her when he remembers a lecture he got from Gerard a few weeks back, about Suitable Behaviour In The Work Place (no cursing and no violence were the main points) and instead he stands back, grinning wildly. He's pretty sure he looks like a crazy person.

She hugs him anyway, but her dark eyes look worried. "Frank," she starts, but he's way too happy to see her. It's been a while. He hugs her again, hanging on tightly, and kisses her cheek like he always does.

"I've missed you," he says softly, stepping back a little but still clinging to her sleeve, and she softens.

"I've missed you too, you know that. But I really have to talk to you."

"Shoot." Frank's beginning to feel a twist in his stomach, dread and a slow realisation that he's not going to like what she has to say, and instead he glances around to try and change the subject. "By the way, have you met Gerard?" He searches wildly for Gerard, who seems to have melted away. Odd, seeing as he was here only a few seconds ago.

"_Frank_." Jamia's tone is firm, and she takes his hand. "Look at me, Frankie."

He does, reluctantly. "What is it?"

"I just." She sighs. "I just wondered. Have you talked to the boys lately?"

"What?" Frank can't help frowning, because they've been one of the furthest things from his mind lately. And then the guilt hits. Pencey is supposed to be what he wants to do with his life, what he wants more than anything, and he's been neglecting them. He gets that. "No, I haven't. But I should, I know. I'll call them as soon as I get home, J, I will."

Jamia sighs again, biting her lip and looking away slightly. "You haven't played a show in months, Frank."

"It's not for lack of _trying_!" Frank snaps, tugging his wrist out of her grasp. "They're not answering my _calls_, okay--"

"What about Eyeball?" Jamia interrupts. "I thought you were getting signed. You _know_ how fickle the scene is, Frankie, they'll all but have forgotten about you by now. Think about what you're _doing_! You're smarter than this!"

"I'm not doing _anything_!" He tries to breathe, to remember that it's not Jamia's fault. He sees her face and rolls his eyes. "I know, I know, okay! I just. I don't want--" _to admit it_, he thinks,_to make it real_. "I don't want," he finishes lamely, unsure of what exactly he doesn't want.

"Frankie," Jamia says, reassuring. "You guys used to play a show every single week. It was always packed. You were talking to Eyeball, you were talking to Black Ball Records. And now what? You're just -- I know how much you want this," she tells him. "And it's slipping away, Frank. You know it is, I know you can feel it too."

"It's none of your business!" he spits out and Jamia flinches back almost as though he's hit her.

"I want the best for you!" she retorts, almost crying and he feels terrible. "I'm trying to _help_ you, you know I am! I just, I want you to be happy, Frank! I'm trying to help!"

Frank takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. He remembers what Gerard told him, about getting angry; he concentrates on his breathing, uncurling his hands from the clenched fists they've become. "I need to make some phonecalls," he says at last. 

Jamia nods slowly. "I think you do. I'm here for you whatever, Frank," she adds quietly, reaching out to touch his face, but he jerks away. "You know that."

He watches her leave and tries not to cry.

[//]

_"There's nothing left to say, I won't answer the phone."_

When Frank goes home, he goes straight up his room and calls Neil. He actually wants to talk to him really badly, not just about Pencey Prep but about how Gerard's been avoiding him all afternoon and he doesn't know why, and... well, mainly about Gerard. About how he seems really cool, and how talented he is. He hasn't spoken to Neil in what feels like forever, and as the rings sound down the phone speaker, his stomach begins to sink. It goes to voicemail.

"Hey, Neil. Uh, we haven't spoken in a while. What's going on, man? I just." He sighs and tangles his hand in his hair, unsure of what he's even trying to say. "Pencey is important. And we're not doing anything at the moment. Just. Call me back."

He thinks about ringing Hambone, but he really can't face another rejection, and if Neil's not answering then Shaun and Tim won't either. He rubs his forehead, trying to get rid of the headache that seems to have sprung up and decides to call Mikey. At least he picks up.

"Hi Frank."

"Mikey, man, I hope you don't mind me calling you about this -- but, like, what's going on with Eyeball and Pencey?" He sounds desperate even to his own ears, but he pretty much is. He hadn't realised how much this had all spiralled out of control until Jamia came in, and all of a sudden it's just one thing after another; he hasn't heard back from Eyeball, none of the Pencey boys have made any effort to contact him, and -- the sick, guilty feeling in his stomach hasn't gone away -- he hadn't even _thought_ about it until Jamia came in. His band, his baby. He wants this so badly, and he hadn't even thought about it.

Mikey takes a while to reply and Frank's pretty sure he's watching a DVD or playing some shitty videogame. Frank can hear some faint shooting noises in the background. "Look. I thought you knew."

Frank actually thinks he's going to throw up. "Mikey -- dude, what is it--"

"You're my best friend," Mikey says quietly, after a few more minutes. "Can we -- we'll still be friends, right?"

Frank decides to stop and think about things logically. It's not one of his strong points, but what it comes down to -- at the moment -- is this. Mikey is, pretty much, his best friend now the Pencey boys seem to have ditched him. And he does value his friendship with Mikey a hell of a lot. And, whatever this bad news is, it probably isn't Mikey's fault. "We'll still be friends, Mikeyway."

"Good." The shooting noises stop abruptly. "First of all, Neil didn't answer his phone for a while. We'd all but given up. Like, you guys didn't want this, y'know? I don't know, man, it just seemed rude. Not a good image. When he did, he told me you guys were over. That's all."

"Well, shit." Frank's ability to breathe seems to be lessening. The room is spinning, slightly, and he feels a little bit like he's in a nightmare he can't wake up from. He notes this very cool and logically. Then, still incredibly coolly, he stands up and walks over to his wall and hits it with all his strength. His fist goes through.

He realises Mikey's still on the phone even though neither of them have said anything for about five minutes. Frank's shared his anger issues with Mikey before; told him all about volunteering at the store and about the band. So it's not really very hard for him to focus back on the phone and say, "So, dude, I just. I punched a hole through my wall."

"Oh," Mikey says. The shooting noises start up again. "That's not so good."

"Yeah, I know." Frank's feeling a little calmer now, the adrenaline he always feels when he gets pissed off beginning to drain from him. "My mom's going to kill me. Mikey, Mikeyway, she's going to fucking kill me."

"Don't let her see it," Mikey offers. "Like, cover it. With one of your posters."

That's actually a good idea. Frank makes a mental note to do that at some point before his mom notices. His chest is still hurting like he's run a marathon and he drops his head onto one of his hands, still clutching the phone to his ear like a lifeline. "Mikey, we're over. Like, Pencey. What... What do I do?"

"I don't know," Mikey says unhelpfully. "At least it happened before you got signed, though."

"Yeah, before I realised one of my life's dreams," Frank mumbles in response. He's struggling to keep it together, but hearing someone talk helps. Keeps his mind away from the thoughts.

"Before you ended up on _Behind The Music_," Mikey corrects him. "If you'd, like, got signed _then_ broken up? It'd be worse."

"I suppose." Frank sighs, trying to change the subject. He makes an effort to sound cheerful. "So, anyway, Mikeyway. What's been crack-a-lackin' in your world?"

"My brother's basically being a total dork," Mikey tells him. He sounds amused by this, but Frank's long since stopped trying to figure out what Mikey's moods mean.

"How?" Frank asks, hoping for something to take his mind off the loss of Pencey. It's going to hit him hard later, he knows, but he can push it to the back of his mind for now. Mikey seems to know exactly how Frank is feeling, and proceeds to tell him a boring story about how his brother is completely in love with this guy who, according to his brother, doesn't even seem to realise he exists or something. Then he takes photos of his cat dressed up in clothes and sends them to Frank. 

Frank's kind of glad he found Mikeyway.

[//]

_"It could be anything. Give a homeless guy a sandwich, help an old lady across the street, like anything to make this world a better place. If everybody just did one good thing for another person, like a selfless good deed just think about how much a better place this would be."_

Frank's life is beginning to revolve around the Children's Society thriftstore and hanging with Mikeyway, and it wouldn't be that bad if he didn't need more music in his life. So when he's leaning on the counter, feeling morose and snapping at Gerard -- who, by the way, has been a complete jerk since the other week when Jamia came in -- he just ends up getting more and more upset. Gerard refuses to look at Frank, barely even speaks at him, and does everything he can to be as far away from him as possible. Whatever, it's not like Frank misses him.

Except he kind of does. A lot. He didn't realise how much he looked forward to his weekly chats with Gerard, about music and art and movies, and how funny and cool and intelligent Gerard is, until they weren't having them anymore. And it's really just pissing him off even more now he's realising how much he actually relies on Gerard to talk to. So he's not in the best of moods when his phone buzzes in his pocket and the Caller ID says _Hambone_.

He answers it straight away, and Gerard when quavers a 'Frank, you know you're not supposed to have your phone on the shop floor,' he just retorts with a quick "Shut the _fuck_ up," before heading outside to get a better signal and leaving Gerard alone behind the counter. He gives his most of his attention to the phonecall, lighting up a cigarette as well. He has a feeling he'll need it. "So when were you going to tell me our band was over?"

"Frank," Hambone starts and Frank explodes.

"No, John! Just shut the fuck up, okay? You _know_ how much that band means to me, you all fucking do, and you couldn't even give me the fucking time of day!"

"It wasn't _like_ that," Hambone insists and Frank is literally shaking with rage. "You didn't have time for us anymore, okay, dude, we tried--"

"You didn't fucking try!" Frank yells, unaware of the strange looks he's getting from passers-by. "I called you, I called you _all_, and you didn't even fucking answer!"

"Because we were busy!"

"You told Mikey that we didn't want to get signed! That's all we've been working for! I'm -- fuck, I'm just so mad, I can't even speak to you right now, dude," Frank spits, holding on to his phone so tightly that his knuckles are white. "I can't fucking believe it, I really can't. I just. Over? Fucking _over_?"

"None of us want this as much as you do!" Hambone shouts. "It's all you fucking talk about, you're so fucking intense! We can't take it, okay! We didn't tell you because we knew, we fucking_knew_ you'd be like this!"

"Fuck you," Frank grinds out, and he's amazed in the back of his mind that he hasn't crushed the phone, he's clutching it so hard. "Fuck you, John McGuire, but at least you had the fucking guts to tell me. Tell them, fucking tell the others that I never want to talk to them again! Fuck, if I see them, I'll cut their fucking throats!" He throws his phone down and stands on it. Twice.

Gerard comes out of the store, looking worried. "Look, Frank, I'd appreciate it if you could come back in. We've got a queue, like, a mile long and you know you're not supposed to make personal phonecalls at work--"

"Shut up," Frank snaps. "Seriously, I don't have fucking time for this right now. I'm leaving."

Gerard looks confused, and a line appears between his brows. "Uh, you can't. You're working."

"My band just fell apart!" Frank's raising his voice again and he _knows_ it's not fair to take it out on Gerard but Gerard's been a pissy little bitch for no reason lately and that seems as good a reason as any right now. "There is absolutely no reason for me to be here anymore!"

Gerard goes almost white, but he still manages to say, "What do you mean, no reason?"

"I mean that the only reason I was here was because of my band!" Frank shouts and he knows every word is hurting Gerard but he can't help it. "I kicked some guy's ass at a show, okay, and he fucking called the cops. My mom said that I either didn't play a show for months or I did fucking community service. So I'm here! And now my band's fucking _over_, there's absolutely no fucking reason for me to be here!"

To give Gerard his credit, he's still standing after Frank's tirade. Most people would have got the hell out of there by now. "You told me that it was because you wanted to help people."

"I lied, okay? I couldn't take your fucking guilt trip!" Frank kicks at his phone, the broken pieces of it, sends them flying down the sidewalk. "You just think you're so fucking good, just because you do your fucking part!"

"Yeah?" Gerard's mad now, colour beginning to stain his face. "Well, what the fuck did _you_ ever do for anyone? I'm trying to change the world!"

"So was I! Through my _music_!"

"Your music? You don't have your fucking music!" Gerard yells. "Your band can't have been that good if the members couldn't fucking deal with you for long enough to stay together!"

Frank punches him in the stomach. Gerard's eyes go wide and round and he makes a soft _oof_ sound. Frank regrets it the moment he's done it and he turns to walk away.

"Fuck you," Gerard wheezes, almost inaudibly. "Fuck you, Frank Iero, you're nowhere near the person I thought you were."

The weird thing is, it hurts more than any fight he's ever been in.

[//]

_"People never cease to amaze us."_

Frank isn't used to spending Saturdays at home. He feels restless and edgy, roaming around the rooms and feeling unable to sit still. He watches a few old episodes of some sitcom on TV but his eyes feel tired, and he's jittery. He scrolls through the contacts on his phonebook, but Mikeyway isn't picking up and there's only so many times he can call Jamia before she's sick of hearing from him, and he doesn't want to let it get to that point. There's no one else he feels like talking to. He manages to get a new job working at Pathmark, but he kind of hates it a lot, and feels drained every time he gets home.

He's sat on the couch, strumming idly on his guitar -- Pencey songs hurt too much, sting, but he can still play Green Day and Black Flag covers -- when his mom comes and sits next to him. He carefully leans down and props his guitar up against the side of the couch, sensing that she wants to talk, but when he turns back she's just holding her arms out to him.

He hesitates for just a second before reaching out to her, leaning against her side and feeling her fingers tangle in his hair. They sit like that for a little while, just being close to each other, and Frank's missed it. Missed talking to her. "What's wrong, baby?" she murmurs into his hair, and Frank shifts slightly but doesn't pull away.

"Everything's ruined," he replies, sounding like a petulant ten-year-old. She doesn't laugh, though, just tugs him closer. "It's not fair."

"Sweetie, life _isn't_ fair," she says tiredly, and Frank realises how hard things are for her, too. It's not just him that's having a difficult time of it, but he seems to forget that. Turning, he wraps an arm around her.

"I know, mom. Just, y'know. I do the wrong thing, sometimes." She starts to open her mouth but he continues hurriedly over her. "Not like, the law or anything. Just, I don't... I make_mistakes_," he finishes angrily. This time she laughs.

"Frankie, everyone makes mistakes. I know you think you have to be better than everyone, and that's nice, but you shouldn't beat yourself up about it. You're only human, sweetie, you're not perfect."

It's strangely reassuring, but Frank's still upset. "But... that's what Dad used to say, all the time," and now he's admitting the true problem, the issue that's really been bothering him about all of this. "Whenever he... you know... he'd just say, it was a mistake. Like that made it okay. I don't want to _be_ that, mom."

"Oh, _Frank_," she says, with a soft exhale of breath. She's holding onto him so tightly now that it hurts, but he doesn't ask her to let go.

"I don't want to be Dad," he says again, with less control, and maybe he's crying a little but no one can prove it. "I don't, I don't."

"You're not going to be," she reassures him, but Frank's not convinced. How does she know, anyway? How can _anyone_ even know? "Frank," she says sternly, almost as though she can read his mind (and she's his _mom_, so chances are she probably can). "You're _not_, I promise."

"You _can't_ promise," Frank argues, snuffling a little and he's got tears and snot on her jumper, it's really gross. He tries to wipe at it with his sleeve but she slaps his hand away, glaring at him.

"_Frank_. Listen to me. You're not going to be your Dad, I know this. You're trying to be better than that --"

"But I'm _not_\--"

"_Frank!_" His mom still doesn't let go of him, but she shakes him a little. "Listen to me, for crying out loud! Your Dad just got drunk and took it out on us and that was all the man ever did. Frank, you're so much more than that, you get self-destructive, sure, but you _know when to stop_. If you were like him, I... I don't think you'd be alive right now," and her voice breaks, turning into a sob.

And _shit_, Frank's heart almost stops right then. He can tell, just from her tone, that this is something she's thought about before, this is something that's kept her up at night. He clings to her, pushing his face up to hers, giving her a kiss on the cheek and tasting the salt of her tears. "Mom, Mom, it's okay. I'm still here, I haven't gotten in any fights, Mom."

"I know," she says, after a little while. She relaxes her grip slightly and Frank's arms ache. He hadn't realised how tightly he'd been holding onto her. He picks up his guitar again, strumming out a soft melody that surrounds them, pulling them together. "I know."

[//]

_"We just have to watch Mikey and make sure he doesn't put anymore forks in the toaster."_

Frank's reading a battered copy of _Cujo_ when there's a knock at the door. He doesn't wait for his mom to get it, just swings his legs over the couch and makes his way over, still gripping the book in one hand. Mikey's at the door, and Frank grins. "Hey, Mikeyway, how's it going?"

Mikey bites his lip, says "Sorry about this," then makes a fist and punches Frank in the stomach.

Frank's eyes widen in an almost comical look of surprise and he makes the same _oof_ noise that Gerard did, almost a month ago now. He recovers more easily though, used to being hit, and he's about to instinctively punch Mikey in the nose before logic kicks in and he manages to stop himself. One hand finds the counter, to support himself, and he protectively covers his stomach with his other arm.

"What the fuck," Frank bites out, slowly regaining control, and Mikey shrugs apologetically.

"I said sorry." He moves past Frank into the kitchen and leans on the counter next to him, ignoring Frank's sideways glare.

"Seriously, Mikey, what was that for?"

Mikey rolls his eyes, picking up _Cujo_ from the counter and flicking through it. "Honestly, Frank? I thought you would've figured it out by now." He puts _Cujo_ back down, carefully, and turns to face Frank. "You hit my brother, I hit you. It's cool."

"I hit..." Frank straightens up and folds his arms across his chest, confused. "Uh, no, I didn't."

Mikey's expression doesn't change, but his tone sounds amused. "Yeah, you did."

Frank mentally runs through all the fights he's had in his head, but he hasn't been to any gigs in a while (too long, if the feeling of being uncomfortable in his own skin is anything to go by) and he definitely hasn't seen any weird loser kids who live in basements. Not that he can remember, anyway. "No, I didn't," he repeats, going back to where the TV's still blaring and sitting down on the couch. Mikey follows him.

"You did," he says again, dryly. "You two had an argument at work and you hit him in the stomach, Frank."

Frank says, "I," and stops. He sits absolutely still for a few moments, processing what Mikey's said. He says "I," again, but realises he still doesn't have anything to follow it up with.

Mikey's mouth quirks slightly. "My brother is _Gerard_, Frank," he says, speaking slowly. "You _work_ with Gerard. You hit him in the _stomach_. Is any of this beginning to make sense to you?"

It hits Frank at once, like... well, more like a punch in the stomach than a ton of bricks, and it's a good job that's he's already sitting down. He slumps further, pressing his palm against his eyes. "Oh. Shit."

"Shit," Mikey repeats, but not with any sting in it, and they still sit in companionable silence for a while longer before Mikey holds up a video tape. "So, I brought _Dawn of the Dead_ over."

"Oh, because we haven't watched that, like, a zillion times already," Frank teases Mikey sarcastically, but Mikey just ignores him and slides it into the VHS player. "Hey, hey, does this mean Elena's your grandmother?" Frank asks, as the thought strikes him.

Mikey smiles a little bit. "Yeah. She likes you," he adds. "She likes me and Gerard more, though."

"No shit," Frank replies, then smirks. "Hey, so you like unicorns, then, huh, Mikeyway?"

Mikey looks sideways at him, but his mouth still has the amused quirk to it. "I don't want your friend's dress, if that's what you're asking," he tells him and Frank grins.

"Aw, Mikeyway, you sure? Only you'd look so precious," he teases in a sing-song voice, reaching out to play with Mikey's hair and Mikey leans back.

"Not the hair," he tells Frank seriously and Frank leans back against the couch, focusing on the movie.

Later, before he goes, Mikey carefully pins a flyer to Frank's bulletin board in the kitchen. "You're coming to see my band play," he tells Frank flatly and Frank nods, hands in pockets. Of course he is. He reads the flyer, after Mikey's left. My Chemical Romance. Cool name.

[//]

_"He's a good kisser, too."_

Frank knows he's a little dumb sometimes, but it only occurs to him that Gerard will be there when he's stood outside the club with Jamia. He didn't feel like showing up on his own and none of the Pencey boys are an option anymore, even though he's been talking to Hambone a little bit. He tucks his hands into Jamia's pockets, and leans his head on her shoulder.

"I've changed my mind," he says, but into her hair, so it sounds more like _uv changed muh mine_. 

Jamia laughs, and pushes him away. "No, you haven't. Don't pussy out, Iero. Mikey's only just started talking to you as it is. What brought this on?"

Frank absolutely doesn't flush, but he might go a little red. "Gee's going to be there. I kind of haven't spoken to him since I punched him in the stomach," he admits and Jamia laughs, although she removes his hands from her pockets as she does.

"Well now, here's your chance," she says calmly, but the grip she's got on his arm says otherwise. She drags him over to the entrance, ignoring the bouncer like he's made of thin air. "Go on," she encourages him. "Just go in."

Frank is not a coward by any stretch of the imagination and he would never admit being scared, but there's a weird feeling in his stomach like a wiggly ball of string, and it seems to be the hardest thing in the world to step through that doorway right now. He manages, though, mainly because he doesn't want Jamia to call him a pussy (she's lighting up a cigarette right now and waves him on, the _I'll follow you in_ unspoken).

It's dark inside, and he suddenly realises that the last time he was inside this venue was when Pencey played. It's the first time he's been inside for a while and not had a guitar on his back, not been up on that stage himself. The thought makes him sad, suddenly, and he has a yearning inside of him just to be in another band. It's something he _needs_. Due to this, something _else_he needs right now is a drink. He knows the barman personally, and so his usual beer is already on the bar by the time Frank makes it over.

He says the obligatory 'thanks' before knocking it back, and Dave's already got another ready for him. "Hard day, dude?"

"You have no idea," Frank groans even though it _wasn't_ a hard day, not really. It's hard now, though, being in here -- and he's had a hard week, he decides, through no fault of his own. "Fuck. You hear Pencey's over?"

"Yeah, man, that sucks," Dave sympathises, and Frank can't tell if he's genuine or not but it really doesn't matter at this point. "So, who are you here to see?"

"Uhh..." Frank can't exactly remember the name of Mikey's band, something either to do with his bad memory or the fact he's on his third beer now. Dave subtly moves it out of his way.

"Maybe you should slow down, man," Dave advises and maybe that's a good idea. Frank likes being drunk as much as the next guy, but he also wants to be able to remember this gig. He's warm though, from the inside, so he's not entirely sober. This is a good way to be, Frank decides, and focuses on staying upright on his barstool. He's not drunk enough that he's swaying in place, not yet, anyway.

The band has been setting up for a while now, but the stage is always a lot darker than the rest of the venue during soundcheck so Frank didn't bother looking. He is kind of interested to see who else is in Mikey's band, he figures it'll probably be some of his buddies from Eyeball. The noise dims a little bit, and the crowd of dark-haired, eyeliner-wearing kids shuffle nearer to the front. Frank decides to join them, leaving his beer at the bar. He doesn't know what he expects from a band that Mikey's in; the dude has pretty good taste in music but Frank's imagining a sort of cross between Smashing Pumpkins and Joy Division; droning and a little bit bleak.

It's not. The lights flash and Frank gets the silhouette of some guy seared into the back of his eyes, standing tall and holding the microphone stand at an angle away from himself. They continue to flash rapidly, and it's all Frank can do to concentrate on the music pounding between his ears. Loud and noisy, it's Frank's favourite kind of music, no doubt. He throws himself into the pit that quickly opens up and the band are on their last song by the time he struggles to the barrier, left of centre and drenched in sweat.

"Play _Freebird_!" Frank has to say it, okay, and it's totally worth it just for the look Mikey gives him, as though he can't decide whether to be unimpressed or slightly amused. "_Freebird_, you assholes!"

Mikey flips him off, then leans close to the microphone and says, "This is one I like to call, 'My Brother Fails At Talking About His Feeling To People.'" 

The look the lead singer gives Mikey could kill, Frank is sure before adding, "This is one called _You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison._" The singer is actually vaguely recognisable -- Frank has to look twice before the penny drops. The whirling, screaming demon on stage is actually Gerard. Huh.

This isn't as big of a deal as Frank would have originally thought. He realises that he's kind of in love with Gerard but it's not some swooping realisation, some big _aha!_ moment, it's more of a quiet _huh_. A _so that's how it is_ moment. It just turns out that Gerard on stage, screaming about doing push-ups in drag or some shit like that, is actually really hot. After the band's finished, Frank gets another beer then goes to find Gerard. He should probably sort this out.

Finding Gerard is easier than Frank expected, mainly because he runs into Mikey on the way who directs him. He also glares at him and says, "You'd better not fuck this up, Iero," but Frank knows that's just Mikey's way of giving his blessing, so it works out.

Gerard is sat backstage, also with a beer in his hand. He's staring at the wall and drinking, and his hair is hanging in strands and dripping with sweat, and overall he's possibly even grosser than Frank is right now. Frank has not been this attracted to somebody in a long time and he can tell by the warmth beginning to pool in his stomach. He's tempted to tell Gerard that his sweat is clearly a turn-on, but he hasn't had enough beers to lose his sense of self-preservation yet. Now he's here, Frank is unsure how how to start, what to say, but he feels like a creep just standing in the doorway and staring at Gerard. He clears his throat, awkwardly, and Gerard jumps.

"Oh, uh, hey, Frank," he stutters and it's weird, because the expression and tone are something Frank saw on Gerard the first time he met him, but Gerard's dressed like the demon Frank saw on stage and it's like double vision, almost. 

"I need to say sorry," Frank announces, not leaving his post in the doorway, and something flickers in Gerard's eyes.

"Apology accepted." Now he's realised that Frank isn't here to punch him again, he looks a little more relaxed.

"Also," Frank continues, sitting on the floor next to Gerard, "you were really awesome up there."

Gerard flushes a little, under his white face paint. Frank wouldn't be able to tell only he sees the mottled red creeping up Gerard's neck before it disappears. "Thanks," Gerard mumbles and just like that, he's back to the stammering, awkward version of himself. Frank stops himself from rolling his eyes.

"Seriously, dude, I'm a little jealous. But that's not the point. Look, I'm honestly sorry for punching you in the stomach. And lying to you a little bit. I kind of really shouldn't have done that."

"No, you shouldn't," Gerard agrees quietly. "I just." He passes a hand in front of his eyes. "I guess I thought you were like me, but you're not."

"Is that a bad thing?" Frank asks, a little confused. "Dude, Gerard, why would you want to make out with someone who was just like yourself? Making out with _yourself_, I mean, who'd say no to that? But with someone just like you? That'd be weird, man."

Gerard blinks. "Making out?"

Frank rolls his eyes. "Well, yeah, that's what we're about to do, isn't it?"

Gerard looks a little worried. "Is it?"

Clearly, they are never going to get anywhere like this and it's up to Frank to take the matters into his own hands. Which he does, taking Gerard's face into his own hands first and pushing his own face onto it. Sure, it might not be the most _romantic_ way to go about it, but Mouth A meets Mouth B... it works. Gerard makes an _mmph_ noise and Frank is maybe a little worried he's suffocating him, but then Gerard opens his own mouth (_about fucking time_, Frank thinks grumpily) and -- it works. Better than it did before.

At least, it works for about five minutes until Gerard pushes him away, eyes wide. "I, I'll call you, tomorrow," he stammers before almost running out of the room and slamming the door. Frank's left on his heels, staring at the wall with a sinking feeling. That did not exactly go as planned.

[//]

_"We're definitely not done yet!"_

Tomorrow comes, and tomorrow goes, and Frank doesn't get a phone call. He realises, of course, that Gerard doesn't have his number but surely he could ask Mikey. Considering that Mikey was the one who invited him to the gig (what were they called, again? Chemical Romance?) Frank's pretty sure that Mikey is fully on board with whatever this is. So Gerard should have no problem calling him. Nevertheless, Gerard seems like the shy type, at least at first. They know each other pretty well by now, and Frank knows Gerard well enough to _also_ know that he's probably freaking out. That's fine, Frank can give him a few more days.

It's when those days turn into roughly a month that Frank gets a little pissed off. If Gerard isn't interested, Frank can deal with that, but it'd be nice of Gerard to at least let him _know_. He'd call Jamia up to bitch about it but she's sick of hearing about it by now and he doesn't feel like he can bitch to Mikey about his own brother, because that's probably breaking some kind of inherent friendship code.

As it turns out, Mikey calls him first. Mikey's actually been calling him for a while, they've hung out more than once in the month since the show, but they haven't spoken about... the _thing_. Frank's actually not sure if Mikey knows about it, and he doesn't want to be the first to bring it up. Mikey does, as usual, get straight to the point.

"My brother's an idiot," he says bluntly. Frank stops himself from agreeing in time, and waits for Mikey to continue. He gets more out of him this way. "I know he said he'd call you."

He seems to be waiting for Frank to reply so Frank says, "Yes," carefully. It's taking all his self-control to not just ramble on right now.

"But the way I see it," Mikey continues, "you fucked up by punching him in the stomach."

Frank says again, "Yes."

"So this is his turn to fuck up," Mikey finishes. Frank doesn't think he's ever heard Mikey say so much, all at once. "Come over and talk to him. But if either of you fuck it up this time, I give up."

"Yes!" Frank hangs up, grinning. He slips on his jacket and heads over to the Ways' house. He's been there before, hanging out with Mikey, but he never got to see Mikey's (as then) creepy older brother who hung out in the basement. It's quite a walk but Frank's in a hurry and it only seems to take about ten minutes. When he gets there, Mikey's sat out on the porch.

"He's in the basement," Mikey says without looking up, concentrating on his Sidekick. Frank messes Mikey's hair up on the way past, ignoring Mikey flipping him off. He marches down to the basement feeling like a man on a mission, and he can almost hear his own theme music playing in the background. (It sounds suspiciously like the music to _The A-Team_ but whatever). He pushes open the door triumphantly and hears it slam on the wall.

"Oh, shit." Frank peers in worriedly, trying to make sure that he hasn't, like, smashed one of Gerard's ancient relic type things that seem to surround the walls. He hasn't, luckily, but he might as well have done from the terrified way that Gerard's looking at him right now.

"Frank, what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Or _should_ I say," Frank replies, advancing on Gerard in a way he thinks is confident, but probably looks more menacing, "why the fuck didn't you call me?"

Gerard sighs, and flops back on the bed. He looks like he hasn't washed in a while but, Frank realises, he also looks the same as always. Gerard takes a swig of something from a bottle before replying. "Do you really need to ask me that?"

Frank rolls his eyes, sitting down on the bed with a soft thump and narrowly missing Gerard's feet, although it'd serve Gerard right if his feet got broken. "No shit I do, otherwise I wouldn't have walked over to your house, fucktard."

"You'd been _drinking_," Gerard explains, his eyes wide. "When you... kissed me, you'd been drinking."

"Yes, I had," Frank answers slowly, as though it might somehow make sense if he slows his speech down. "I'd been drinking." He sits back against the wall and waits for Gerard's next obvious statement.

"You didn't know what you were doing," Gerard follows up patiently. "You -- I didn't want to take advantage, I figured you wouldn't want me to call you. After that."

Frank wants to hit Gerard just for this display of idiocy but with another amazing display of self-control, he manages not to. "Gee, I'd been _drinking_, I wasn't drunk." He frowns. "I knew exactly what I was doing, jerkface. That's why you didn't call me? Because I'd had, like, a beer? You'd been drinking too!"

"But I don't have a _girlfriend_," Gerard explains carefully.

Frank actually thinks his head is going to explode. "Neither do I! I'm _gay_!"

"You _do_," Gerard insists. "That girl, you were hugging her and whispering in her ear at work, and then someone said they'd seen you kissing her outside. I thought -- You were just kissing me because you were drunk, I didn't -- I thought I'd be fucking things up for you. If I called you."

"_Jamia_?" Frank says incredulously. "Jamia isn't my _girlfriend_, she's gay! She's a -- what the fuck, when did I kiss her?"

"Someone _said_!" Gerard says, fisting his hands in the bedsheets. "They said you were kissing!"

"We weren't!" Frank yells. "Fuck, I can't believe -- Gerard, you fucking asshole, you're like, one of the best fucking things that ever nearly happened to me and you're fucking this up over a, a fucking non-existent girlfriend!?"

"I just, I didn't _see_," Gerard replies, quietly and without looking Frank in the eye. "It made sense, why would you kiss me if you... you weren't drunk? A guy like you, I mean, liking _me_? I don't get it."

Frank exhales noisily. "You're a fucking idiot," he tells Gerard. "You're really like, talented. You're nice. You're really hot." Gerard flushes, but still doesn't look up from where he's twisting the sheets in his hands. "Idiot," Frank repeats cheerfully and leans forward to smush his mouth against Gerard's for the second time. What Frank lacks in technique, he more than makes up for in enthusiasm. Gerard's mouth opens more quickly this time, hot and warm, and Frank should be concentrating on not overbalancing but this is possibly one of the most amazing things _ever_. So when he loses his balance and falls forward onto Gerard, they don't even break the kiss. Frank manages to rearrange his body so he's laying next to Gerard, and they carry on.

"And just think," Frank says into Gerard's mouth, a little while later, "we owe all this to Elena."

Gerard pulls away for the first time, wrinkling his nose. "Ew, Frank, that's gross. Don't talk about my grandmother while I'm kissing you."

Frank owes it to his community service as well, though. Maybe next time he sees Jake, he'll thank him.


End file.
